


That's What Forever Is For

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo tells the story of his eighteen months as Aragorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's What Forever Is For

Something very curious happens when you practice the habit of people watching. It sounds more common than one would think, this quietly removed observance. Most humans do it on a daily basis in a less rigorous form; but to truly be a people-watcher carries with it much more distance and variation than that. 

After years of doing this—the serious brand of people watching—the curious thing that happens is this: You stop feeling like one of them. Oh, of course, this comes on strongly during the actual watching that you do. It waxes and wanes alternately at all other times, inevitably. 

But the point is that your watching of them renders you the wildlife biologist following a lion pride around the Serengeti under a blazing sun. You cannot help but feel distant from them. You grow ever more amazed of them, though there is actually nothing physically different between you and they. The only thing that separates you is the fact that you are the observer. 

The detachment continues: while watching them—and at rare times, even when talking to them—you feel as though you don’t exist to them. They’ve gone so far in becoming your targets that you surely don’t believe they have thoughts on or opinions of you. When you leave the room, they don’t discuss you or think about you. The interaction between the two of you ceases to exist when you are parted.

This people watching is a dangerous thing. It is also something that many artists share in common; to make artistic imitation of life, it is unavoidable that subjects you see may become foreign to you. Something happens in the shift from person to art that facilitates the change; and that something can happen because of this perpetual rendering of people as alien entities.

This is a part of me. It is a half of me, at times, but most likely a quarter of me at all times, and I don’t like to admit it. No artist does. It is an embarrassing reality that no one likes to admit to. We’d all like to think we’re capable of spewing art from pencils and brushes without changing our human nature one bit. 

As an actor, the people watching becomes an invaluable tool. Seeing people—and even life—in the third person, at will, can be a very useful way of adapting a character or improving on-screen performance. 

As a person, it also comes in handy. It serves as a way of testing people; those persons that you simply cannot see through this filter typically aren’t the kind you want to become close to. And, on the contrary, those that burst through the filter with bright regalia and warm honesty are those that you may want in your life.

But what of the other parts of me? Well, there is the social, normal human man that is not so different from any other man. I love people, I love new places, and I love variation. I live my life with a combination of societal awareness and personal freedom, balancing and checking my behavior on both sides—though I usually end up going with my free way of thinking, if the truth is to be told.

And I bridge the two with humor, love, and professionalism wherever I can. Therefore, at times, I am withdrawn. At others, I’m engaging. But the two, at the end of the day, are carefully overlapped. Of course, I constantly doubt myself and my wholeness as a person—as every one does. I am human, though at times I may forget that, and it’s that truth that keeps me tied permanently to the world around me.

But all this is meant to stress the fact that I am complete. I live in my world and in theirs, and it’s all playfully interwoven in the most pleasing way—it is our world. My life is richer for my people watching, and I would go so far as to say that the lives of those around me are touched by the results of it. 

There is a flaw in all this, though, if you have not already spotted it. While I have found a fair measure of peace within myself and with my take on the world, how do I bridge my life and the lives of others with any grain of honesty?

Come now, you might say, how in the hell are you going to make them see that you’re not just a nutcase who likes poetry, acting, and oil paints? And therein lies my answer. (With the poetry, acting, and paints, by the way—not with the nutcase bit.) I offer the fruits of my art to them when and where I can…and if I can force myself to do it. I publish the poetry; I act the parts as well as humanly possible; I show the paintings. I don’t think people really should have to notice the things I do. If they do, well, that’s wonderful. If not, I have no complaints.

But regardless—this is how we barter, the people and I. It’s how we bond and share. Because, at times, I accept their offers of love and art and conversation in return for mine, and we all grow warm and fat on the substance of each other. And then they are not so strange and foreign. They will always be slightly out of the sphere of my reality, but they are no doubt within their own realities as I am in mine—and doesn’t that make us all brothers, anyway?

So there is this paradoxical mix of togetherness and separateness that makes life eternally fascinating. This is how my life is run, from small event to small event, from offering to offering. And how could it not, considering all the places I have been, all the countries I’ve lived, and all the peoples of different cultures I’ve known? Could any simpler system of living suit the amount of varied experiences I’ve been fortunate enough to have?

But occasionally, something quite remarkable happens. Something comes along that takes away the basic principles of your life and replaces them with a new set of options you are subsequently forced to work with. This “thing,” whatever form it takes, is so new and unfamiliar that the old rules of people watching, of relationships, and of professionalism no longer apply. And this is one of the true tests of living—what do you do? Do you panic and close your eyes? Do you throw your arms around this thing in welcome?

Well. I did both.

Because when a director named Peter Jackson contacted me in late 1999 and asked me to play the role of Aragorn in the movie of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, my careful professionalism came to a stuttering, overwhelmed stop; and stayed that way, for just under forty-eight hours. 

 

Of course, Peter didn’t just randomly ring me up one evening, as the romantic press is wont to say. He contacted my agent, and my agent contacted me. And you know; it really wasn’t all that magical, talking about it with my agent. I did not yet understand what the big to-do was.

He told me about Peter, about the project. He explained that Stuart Townsend and Peter hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on how Aragorn should be portrayed; that filming was already begun and that they were very desperate for me to come down and play the part; that they would accommodate me any way they could. They were offering ridiculous amounts of money. And with good reason—flying to New Zealand on no more than a week’s notice to play a character with less than a few days to get prepared? Impossible.

I was going to say no, of course. There was no way in hell I could up and leave the States and my son Henry that fast. My ex-wife Exene and I had an arrangement—while she toured with her band, I had Henry. While I went on location to film, she would have him. So far it had worked out. There was no animosity between us two. We had stayed friends despite getting divorced. Conceivably, I could find her and send Henry to her. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to. 

And I was scared. Hell, I shook for an hour after the initial phone call with my agent. Peter Jackson would be calling me within the next few hours, he told me. Think about it, he pressed. He was seeing dollar signs and my name up in lights a bit more than he should, I think. Well. That was what I paid him for.

Okay. Logistics argued. Look at the actual project.

Lord of the Rings. I hadn’t read the books. Being moved around from country to country as a child had made me miss the full impact of Tolkien’s novel in the US.

I recalled Henry trying to explain the plot to me one late night when we were killing time during a power outage. I was tempted to wake him up now, as he was asleep in his room just down the hall, but I found myself strangely unable to move. I was hot and cold all at once and felt very nauseous. 

And then the phone rang. Had hours really gone by? I was consumed with the crazy idea of not answering. How simple, to plainly not move my arm and wrist and fingers and let the call go away. How very easy. Rings spiraling emptily into the night.

But I couldn’t.

“Hello? This is Viggo,” I said into the roaring, silent noise of the phone.

“Mister Mortensen, hullo! I expect you’ve been contacted already. Look, sorry about that, would’ve called you myself if I knew I would have gotten through…”

Thick New Zealand accent; he was breathless and a little nervous, but powerfully excited. I wondered why. I still hadn’t realized the scope of it.

Once the introductions were out of the way, the nervousness in Peter’s voice disappeared. I realized it was because he now had free reign to talk about his baby, his movie. And I realized that I was being seduced.

I had never expected the director slash writer slash creator slash the man crazy enough to take this on to be a rabid Tolkien fan—a man all but tripping on a multi-million dollar budget. It was like handing the most loyal Tolkien reader a check for three million dollars and telling him to have at it.

That was step one of my seduction. In order to get into a project, I have to feel the love and devotion—I have to feel the three dimensional nature of the story and the characters and even the crew (if possible) to convince myself that I’m doing something worthwhile. I’ve never played a character I didn’t like. And the love came off Peter’s voice in waves so thick I felt as if I could immediately adore him; there it was. 

He told me his story from start to finish. How he had gotten it together; building their own effects and props studios; doing their own publicity to try and get a studio to fund them; searching for the cast long before it was even clear that there was going to be a way to pay them.

This was fantastic. This was movie making with a level of tender care and drive and personal desire that all movies should have been made with. In translation: Peter and his quest broke through the filter so loudly, I forgot entirely about being guarded and professional. I didn’t talk much, because I didn’t trust myself anymore to stay objective. I might say something I’d regret later.

Step two was the story itself. He explained who Aragorn was, what Aragorn would be; what his role to the other characters was. It was a very thin version of the story. I knew it would be impossible to hear the whole thing. By the time he was halfway through, I was trying desperately to remember how late the local bookstore stayed open until. I had to have my hands around those books. I trembled with the need to know the full thing.

And then I remembered that I was going to say no, and the most horrible conflict exploded in my chest. I think I was in actual, physical pain for a few moments. I said next to nothing when he finally asked me what I thought. I mumbled something about needing a couple days to think about it. I couldn’t say no to Peter the way I had vaguely said no to my agent; the magic had already leapt out from across the Pacific and lunged down my throat.

Peter almost sounded reluctant to hang up; as if putting down the phone would severe the connection he and I had made and ruin all hope of me ever saying yes. But I felt like crying and didn’t like the feeling and couldn’t bear to converse a second longer. I should’ve called my agent, but I couldn’t bring myself to lift the receiver once I had put it down.

What the hell am I going to do?

I sat and stared into space for about half an hour. And that’s when Henry wandered into the den in his pajamas and came over to me.

“It’s late, Dad,” he said.

I looked up, startled, and then rubbed my eyes. “I know. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, smiling and sitting down opposite me. “Was that Mom?”

“No, it was—it was about a part someone wants me to play.”

He nodded, waiting for me to go on. What was I going to say to explain things? I couldn’t go to New Zealand. I couldn’t be Aragorn; I couldn’t even picture myself with the love in my voice that I heard in Peter’s. 

“A director is making the Lord of the Rings into a film, in New Zealand. They’ve already started. The actor they cast to play Aragorn didn’t work out. They want me to go down there and take over the role.”

His eyes went as wide as saucers. “No way! No…way!”

I smiled. “Yes way,” I replied, putting his childish emphasis on the phrase, knowing full well how silly I sounded. “It’s crazy, though, Henry. I’m sure they have another guy lined up that will do just as well.”

He looked at me as though I had sprouted a second head. “You’re joking.”

“They want me to leave and join an already in-progress filming…in five days.”

“Dad. You have to do this.”

I fell silent. I hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from Henry. The tension in my chest twisted up again.

“Wait a sec,” he said, and shot off his chair and out of the room. He returned moments later, clutching three worn paperbacks. He handed me the top one. “Here. Chapter ten. Page one-eighty-five. It’s called Strider. Read it.”

We sat in silence and I read. By the time I hit page one-ninety-eight, the last and final stage of my seduction was complete; I was introduced to Aragorn directly, with no one there between us. 

Oh, no. Oh…damn.

Henry went on to ramble enthusiastically about the books. How Tolkien had created thousands of years of history and genealogies as background for the story, created dozens of cultures and species of creatures, written entire languages right down to alphabets and grammatical rules, and drawn whole full-detailed maps of the world itself. He explained that Aragorn was easily one of the chief characters and was not only a Ranger but also a King. Aragorn was one of the noble saviors of men because he wanted to be the exact opposite; but he was so thoroughly suited for the task that in the end, his destiny and the destiny he longed for became one.

It was the depth and complexity of the work that enthralled me; and then it was the depth and complexity I felt Peter trying to reproduce—in the most respectful way possible—that held me.

“I can stay with a friend until Mom flies over to pick me up,” Henry said finally, once we sat in silence again.

I laughed a little at him. “Is this an order?”

“You want to do it, Dad, you know you do. Your reason for saying no sucks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Hm. Well. I still need to think it over.”

He grinned. He knew that meant yes. As he went to leave, I smirked.

“You looking for a job as an agent? You’d be very good at it.”

He grinned again and was gone a moment later, a knowing look on his face.

And so with my son’s support and urging, I made the decision I might have otherwise not been able to make.

Aragorn and I had forty-five years of catching up to do.

 

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Viggo Mortensen.” I paused. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Yes?”

“So, how old was I when I was taken to the elves?”

There was a brief pause, a loud breathy noise, and then laughter. The female voice on the other line, which would later be identified as Philippa Boyens (the third pillar in the writing of the movie’s screenplay along with Peter and his wife Fran), sounded ragged with relief.

“Hold on, Mister Mortensen. We have a lot to discuss.”

She covered the phone with her hand, but not carefully enough for me to not hear her exclamation of “Yes!” before she finally remembered to hit the hold button.

I smiled into the phone. I loved her instantly—simply for that. Oh, this crew was winning me over easily. The filter throbbed with wonderful violation.

 

The actual signing on legalities were quick and unimportant; a volley of faxes and signatures and half a dozen phone calls and it was finished. Finally, I thought, and set about getting ready. I helped Henry pack and talked at length with his friend Kevin’s parents before leaving him with promises of dropping by before I left for the airport.

Okay, we need to set some order here. I had help packing, of course; this was a professional venture, after all. So that wasn’t the kind of order I had to be concerned with. 

I had a story to drown in.

Using the information provided by my agent and Peter, I compiled a list of works to look at in addition to the three main books themselves. A lot was faxed directly to me. The other half I had myself—or would have after a quick run to Barnes and Noble. I had the three books themselves, a copy of The Silmarillion, and a copy of the Volsunga Saga, which, I was told, had been one of Tolkien’s favorite childhood books and an inspiration to the story. It had been sitting on my bookshelf for ages.

I only had a couple nights before my flight. Everything was arranged. I had been in touch with Exene, who was incredibly excited for me, and agreed with Henry that it would have been insane to turn the part down.

I called everyone I could possibly think of to call and let them know where I would be going and how to get in touch with me. It took hours, going through the address book, and I was exhausted when it was finished. I think I slept for fourteen hours after that.

When I woke up, it was back to the business of learning. Peter had already told me that I would be starting a regiment of sword training, vocal training for Elvish, and canoe lessons the very morning of my arrival. 

But I had to get a grip on what all this sprung from. And so I picked up the background material and began reading. 

 

I dreamed of Middle Earth. It was impossible not to, having read about it on and off for twelve hours straight right up until the moment my eyes closed themselves against my will. I felt the wholeness of the place as if it had always existed in my mind. I could feel the scratchy, unclean garments of Aragorn. I could feel the sword in my fingers. I felt all the turmoil and grandeur of such a life.

I carried on this emotion as long as I could after waking, though it dimmed considerably. I was quiet through the frenzy of packing and driving and airport insanity. I was trembling inside from the weight of Aragorn in my head. I loved him already, and he was on the short and narrow path to merging with me, as all my truly beloved characters have done.

I thought of the list of actors that would be my companions, though it was very hard to see them and not their characters. I thought of John Rhys-Davies, Elijah Wood, Sean Astin, and dozens of other names. All blips on the radar, regardless of their accomplishments, because I was too overwhelmed to sort things out. What rose to the surface, so to speak, was the variation in the cast: young to old, experienced to inexperienced, “known” and “unknown.” Fascinating mix. I couldn’t wait to meet them all.

Between bouts of frantic thinking, I buried my nose in the stack of books I had in my carry-on bag. I didn’t even notice the plane taking off or landing. It was hours and hours, that’s all I realized, once I shuffled off the plane. 

I looked across the way and saw a woman with dark red hair and a welcoming look on her face wave me over. I was in New Zealand; and the world would never look quite the same again.

 

It started with meetings and exchanges of scripts. I met the crew in order of who could tear themselves away from the filmmaking. I was given timetables, information on where I would be living, and a shooting schedule. Thousands of handshakes and words later, I settled in with my various teachers, plunging right to the heart of what I absolutely needed to know. 

Even when I knocked a tooth out during a sword-fighting session, I insisted we not stop. I was rabid about filling myself with as much practical knowledge as possible. And then there was the Elvish. Well, language had never been a problem for me—I could speak Danish, Spanish, and English all fluently. And Elvish was a beautiful, flowing language, with hints of French and Spanish and half dozen others to a lesser degree. I loved it immediately and mentally noted having to ask Peter for more Elvish in the script—there wasn’t too much, on first glance.

And then there was the costuming. Now, this was important to me: putting on the skin of the character. Time for the inside to keep developing, yes, on my own—but the costume, well, that was an integral step in bringing it all home. And I couldn’t very well walk around in costume all the time.

Before they could even finish arranging it on me, I asked for my sword. I think I actually said “my sword.” That got a few looks. Oh, just get it, will you! And they did, at length. Finally the last layers were added and little ties here and there pulled on the tunic and the boots. I picked up the sword in my hand, and couldn’t help but notice the silence in the room. Several people walking past stopped dead in the hallway and looked in.

I realized Aragorn was suddenly there in the room. God, so heavy on me. I looked up, and gave the sword a quick swivel around once and then twice. I smiled over at the costume designer, and saw how her hands trembled when she helped me to get out of the trappings.

Back at the props place one town over, I asked if I could keep the sword with me.

“Sure,” the man said eventually, giving me a very strange look.

Pampering the madman.

 

Meeting my fellow cast members was a staggered, interesting process. Because filming had already started, I was showed around by a public relations type of assistant, catching actors on and offset, sometimes even back at their flats. I found everyone fascinating and enjoyable and thought I had gotten a pretty decent chance to see everyone by the end of my tour. I went to dinner a few times in the following days, watching them interact, and at moments even feeling a bit jealous of the friendship they already had going.

I stuck mainly to Sean Bean and John—that is to say, men my own age and older. Felt easier, though I had nothing but good feelings from the younger men. John was amazing to me. Talking to him was incredible. Every word from his mouth seemed important. He made me very comfortable.

Sean Bean and I discussed our characters over steak. At times I would go along with the late-night drinking and the like, but mostly I was tucked inside my own thoughts, which by then ran parallel to Aragorn’s.

And then something occurred to me. Where in the hell was Legolas?

Orlando Bloom had apparently been off location for a week. I wondered why and where, of course, and I wanted him to get on back. I knew we’d be doing a lot of scenes together, and a lot of Elvish dialogue as well, and it was important to me that I see him.

The thought obsessed me for an afternoon and finally wore off by nighttime. I went back to reading my books and the script, adding notes here and there, and playing around with my sword when my eyes started to hurt from reading. Keeping to myself was not a way of avoiding my coworkers; I found it necessary to have a certain level of solitude. I had never felt that need so strongly as with Aragorn.

I sneaked a call to Henry when I ran out of things to hold my attention. He was doing great, he said, and begged for stories of things we had done on set. We talked for an hour or so before ringing off.

I thought about maybe writing something, but the idea slid off me. Painting? Nah. Didn’t feel like putting anything on canvas, either. Aragorn kept walking circles around my brain and occasionally poking my brain with his sword. Hmm.

That’s when I heard the front door buzzer trill through the hallway. Without giving much thought as to who it might be, I put aside my book, not thinking about my barefoot and scruffy look.

Standing there in the light drizzle stood a slender kitten of a boy. That was the phrase that originally came to mind. I almost never compared people to people; on first impression, it was always some animal or natural thing that better described them. 

Brown eyes, brown hair, dark, casual clothes; five foot ten or so, I wagered. He was a little too slender—all angles. And when he smiled, I felt warmth in my face.

“Viggo?”

I blinked. “Yes,” I said automatically.

“Orlando Bloom.” He paused and then laughed. “Mind if I come in? The rain’s pickin’ up.”

I realized I had been staring. What the hell? Finally reacting, I smiled and nodded, stepping back to let him in. He let out a sigh of relief at the warmth of the place. I wanted him to start talking again. I loved accents, and his was purely British, and simply lovely.

I led him into the kitchen.

“Something to drink?” I asked, my voice lower then usual.

“Beer’s fine,” he replied, smiling again and sitting down at the table in the center of the room.

I put out two beers, though I had no intention of drinking mine, and stared at him across the table.

“I wasn’t expecting you. Well, I was wondering when we’d get to meet,” I said. 

“Busy as always. Place out about a two-hour’s drive from here where I was doing some horseback riding. You know—the whole thing. Archery, too. Yeah. Fun, but tiring, man, really.”

I loved the way he spoke, slightly out of breath and seeming to run out of things to say at the end of every sentence. Normally I would find this annoying, but it made him endearing to me. Only then did it hit me that he might be intimidated by me—by my age or my reputation.

“I figured. When I asked about Legolas, they told me you were training.”

He raised an eyebrow and then smiled. “Yeah, that’s me. I just got back, actually. Didn’t even finish unpackin’.”

He shifted around a lot, I noticed, and couldn’t seem to keep his lips and tongue still. He was very fidgety, and I found myself the observer again. What did the filter have to say about Orlando? Well, the filter was a little confused at the way being around the boy was almost frighteningly comfortable. Had he perhaps found a way around? Shocking, indeed, if that were possible. Hmm.

All the better for our acting together, I thought.

“I shouldn’t keep you, then. Where are you going to be tomorrow?”

“More archery training, I think. I haven’t got any filming for a few days.”

“We should have dinner,” I suggested while he sipped his beer. “Get acquainted.”

I myself didn’t have to film my first scene with other actors—the Weathertop scene—for a few days. I had to meet with my vocal coach in the morning and I had some horseback riding to do, but the evening was mine.

“That’d be great,” he said, smiling at me, his brown eyes all bright and brimming with something like relief. He ran a hand self-consciously over the mohawk he sported. “Where d’you want to meet?”

“Back here is fine, if the drive isn’t too long for you,” I answered.

He chuckled. “No, not at all. I live just five minutes away, in fact. Here, let me… Got a bit of paper?”

I plucked a napkin off the kitchen counter and pulled a charcoal pencil from my pocket. He gave me a funny look, almost looking like he wanted to ask me why I had that there, but didn’t. He jotted down his number and address—it was just on the other side of Wellington.

“The hobbits are on set a lot tomorrow. I’ll be popping back and forth between watching them and the archery training. So perhaps I’ll see you there even before the evening.”

We were walking to the door. It was late, after all. He seemed kind of tired around the eyes and though I wanted him to stay longer, I didn’t ask anything of the sort.

“I’ll visit, then. I’ve only seen them in costume a couple of times,” I replied, smiling.

“It’s pretty fun, actually. They’re a bunch of madmen—all in a day’s work, though, yeah?”

He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up when we stepped onto the porch. I felt fine getting pattered on by rain.

“I’m glad you came by,” I said, trying very hard to look nice. Sometimes I don’t think I look very friendly.

“Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding and shoving his hands in his pockets. I could see the outline of a cigarette box there. His legs were very slender and long.

“G’night, then, Orlando.”

“Call me Orli,” he said, walking backwards down the path between my building and the street. “Everybody does.”

But I knew I would always call him Orlando.

 

The horse that would be doing a good deal of my scenes with me was a brilliant animal. I wasn’t sure if I would take to riding, but an hour or two of trying my hand at it took away the doubts. Maybe it was Aragorn coming up in me, but regardless, I was having fun. I had almost forgotten my promise to visit the set where unit two was filming some fleeing-from-the-Shire hobbit scenes.

Normally I would have gone for a shower after all the interaction with the horses—but I felt sort of rugged and comfortable, especially since I had insisted on wearing one of Aragorn’s over tunics. Best to keep that going. Shrugging my sword around waist, I made for my rental car, trying to remember how far the drive would be.

I sat behind the wheel of the car, thinking, and suddenly the landscape on the horizon caught my eye. Well, not really—I had been staring at it for several minutes. But all at once I was seeing it, actually processing it as a whole. 

I blinked. 

The mountains in the distance were wildly impressive, and there was a hazy low cloud over everything, with the sun piercing the haze. I could picture it almost giving effort to do so, straining against the tight particles of moisture and gas to spread its influence further and warmer. And below there was the green fields, glowing with all the glory of expansive miles.

I itched for a paintbrush in my hands. But a camera would do. Scrambling, I fished my camera from the bag I kept in the backseat of my car. I circled the parking area for about fifteen minutes before deciding on an angle. 

It hadn’t come to mind that my final angle—laying on my knees and almost on my stomach—might attract the attention of anyone who was around to see. I didn’t think about that kind of thing. Hell, it made sense to me.

A grinding on the gravel just barely got my attention seconds later. I turned, brushed off my trousers, and was surprised to see Orlando Bloom standing next to an idling car just a few yards away.

The line came to mind: “What’s this? A Ranger caught off his guard?” I made myself chuckle, thinking of it. He gave me a funny look.

I motioned to the horizon. “Getting a picture. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Yeah, it’s…it’s something.”

I set my camera back into the canvas bag and tucked it away from any direct sunlight behind the passenger seat. Okay. Now focus on the person, Viggo. The mountains distracted me again.

“I finished early,” he explained, though I hadn’t asked. “I’m glad I caught you. Although,” he pause with a grin, “if that view hadn’t caught you first I expect I would’ve missed you.”

I smiled and leaned against my car. He was wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and a plaint t-shirt layered over by a zip-up sweatshirt. He was squinting against the sharp breeze and had his hands in his pockets the way he had last night.

“Yeah, probably. Well. Are you busy?” I asked. 

“No, not at all.”

“Want to do something silly?”

He blinked at me, and then his eyes lit up. “That’d be fantastic. Things were almost getting boring around here.”

He was lying to indulge me—but I liked it. A little too much. I smiled and pointed out over the expanse of hills.

“Let’s go exploring. It’d be good practice, don’t you think?”

“You mean…just start walking?”

Obviously, his idea of silly was more extreme than mine. No matter. I grabbed my bag from the backseat of my car. I had plenty of water bottles and such in there, including a cell-phone. Wasn’t going to tell him that, though. This was shaping up to be fun.

I started to walk off the gravel. “You coming?”

He looked around, shook his head, and gave that grin that changed his whole face.

 

“Alright, once again, if you please?”

“Born in New York in 1958. We stayed there for two years and then moved to South America. From…oh, I guess, around ’60 to the summer of ’69 we moved back and forth between Argentina and Venezuela. After that, moved back to New York. I went to high school and college locally, got degrees in government policy and Spanish. Early 1980, I moved to Denmark, doing insane odd jobs to get by. Not a big deal, though—it was very cheap to live there. ’82, I moved back to New York to live with a then long-term girlfriend and got it in my head to become an actor. None of my friends in Denmark thought I would make it…”

Orlando laughed.

“So, I started going to acting school. Of course, it didn’t work out right away. I was doing odd jobs again all through up until 1995, even though I had a couple parts in some pretty well received movies. They were all indie, or at least near that caliber, and not enough to get by on. In ’87 I met Christine. A year later, we had Henry. We moved out west to avoid exposing Henry to the fame of our industry—Christine was a singer, so the two of us combined brought exposure we didn’t want our son to have.”

He nodded, skirted a huge rock, and then fell back in pace with me as we struck out between a streambed and the foot of a hill.

“Work for an actor in Idaho—yes, Idaho—wasn’t very good. It took a lot to get by. I was still avoiding more commercial stuff; the characters were deplorably one-dimensional. But I needed the money. That’s when I got the parts everyone seems to remember—you know, G.I Jane, A Perfect Murder.” I waved a hand. Didn’t want to dwell on that kind of thing.

“By the end of ’97 me and Christine realized we weren’t too happy being married. She was going in different directions with her career, and my acting was picking up. We got divorced, but stayed friends. We have mutual custody of Henry. I took the time to get back into painting and poetry…even wrote some songs. I had just finished filming 28 Days when Peter Jackson contacted my agent.”

I smiled, and he looked at me sideways, smiling back.

“And the rest is…well…still happening, really.”

Now how long had it been since I told that entire thing in one go? After all, Orlando had just asked, “So tell me about yourself.”

“I regret asking, now,” he sighed playfully.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Because now I feel twice as tiny as I did last night.”

I chuckled at the expression on his face. “Oh, don’t. Honestly, I—well. I don’t see it that way. What about you? Where are you from?”

“Canterbury. England,” he tacked on. “I was born in 1977.”

God, that made him twenty-two. I felt like an old man.

“I always wanted to be an actor,” he continued. “I went to a couple academies, got a scholarship, did fairly well. And then I got that cameo in Wilde in ’97…”

I grinned. Yes, I’d seen that. Good movie.

“After that I went to Guildhall for three years. I had only just graduated from there when Peter Jackson rung me up.”

“So this is your first big role,” I stated more then asked.

He smiled. “Yeah, guess so.”

“You must be really excited. I mean, to get chosen like that… You’ve got to be good.”

“It’s…yeah. I mean, I’m excited. But I feel…”

I nodded, paused, and sat down on a bit of hill. He stopped and sat with me.

“Out of place,” he said finally, looking uncomfortable again. He shrugged. “Do I really belong here? I mean, all these other actors…I mean, the real sirs and dames, if you read me. Ian McKellan? Fuck, man. And I haven’t even met him yet. And you, well…” He smiled.

I shrugged and laid my elbows on my knees. “You can’t look at it that way. You’re here and you deserve to be here. Everyone has to start somewhere. And what better way to start?”

He nodded. “I’ve really got a hold on Legolas.”

“You look like an elf,” I observed casually, lifting my eyebrows. He laughed.

“Thanks.”

We sat in silence for the first time in a while, and he stared out over the hills. “You were right. About coming out here. It is kind of silly.”

I smiled. “Probably.”

He hugged his knees to his chest. I looked at the jeans that pulled up around his white-socked ankles and the muddy sneakers below. I looked at his face, and the ears that stuck out perhaps because of the lack of hair; the ears that were a little red from having foam latex elf ears on and off them.

Maybe it was how he reminded me simultaneously of how I had been at that age and also of the many things he was that I wasn’t at that age that made me like him instantly. Another version of myself. A lot of people fit that bill, though, so what was it that I found so comforting and nice about him? 

Was it just because he seemed to understand some part of me, without saying anything really to that? It seemed that way. It seemed he had sought me out because he saw and understood something in me.

And isn’t that what’s most appealing to us all, in the end? That a person can see into us the way we so desperately want them to? Is that what it takes to get around the filter?

 

After a day of filming some of the interior Prancing Pony scenes at Stone Film Studios, I was glad to have a chance to spend time with the cast. I changed into regular clothes for once, but kept Narsil with me. I let them drag me to dinner.

John Rhys-Davies was ordering for us. It was only by quickly consulting Sean Astin, who sat at my right looking spectacular in brown, that I found out it was a normal thing for John to do. Elijah was in a crazy mood, cracking jokes and being generally loud. I wondered if he’d noticed how Sean was staring moonily at him.

I was in a great mood overall—not feeling so much like an outcast anymore. I was surprised when Orlando showed up. He was supposed to be on location somewhere else. He must’ve been driving for a while to get here on such short notice. I never even entertained the idea that he might have called Elijah and asked if I was going to spend the evening with the cast and if so, he would be there as soon as he could. (Later I found out that he had done just that.)

He bustled in, late as usual, and looking out of breath. He wore linen pants, a green dress shirt, and a pair of dark glasses over his eyes. Stepping up to the table, he whipped the glasses off, claimed the seat across from me with far too much attempt to be casual looking about it, and smiled broadly at the table.

“Orli, brilliant. Well, I would ask you what you’d like, but our dwarf friend has already decided you’re in the mood for linguini,” informed Billy Boyd.

“As long as it isn’t meat,” Orlando shot back, waving at John, who flashed a wide smile back at him.

“You’re a vegetarian?” I asked.

He nodded and smiled at me. “You look almost out of character.”

I was wearing decent clothes like the rest. My sword was, however, lying at my feet under the table. I couldn’t part with the damned thing.

“Almost,” I said, grinning a tiny grin.

I went quiet again and fell to watching. I loved seeing them all talk and laugh together, and felt the old stirring of not being one of them. But it was in passing and secondary; the primary part of me was at home here, no matter what.

And then I felt the urge to be alone with Orlando. It was strange, coming in all at once and quite out of nowhere. But there it was, especially when I looked at him. I thought of how nice it would be to share a tiny, dimly lit table with him. Our first dinner plans weeks before had fallen through after the afternoon of hiking. We had met up going from set to set or studio to studio after that, but hadn’t had a full evening or afternoon of just us two since he had introduced himself.

By the time desert arrived, I got up the nerve to ask him what he was doing after dinner.

“I was going to go home and practice some Elvish, actually,” he replied. “I think I’ve gotten drunk the past couple weekends and forgotten to give it as much attention as I should.”

I perked up at that. “I could help, if you’d like.”

He shifted once. “You’re really good at it, from what I’ve seen. Want to come over, then? That is…if you’re free.”

I told him I was.

 

In the parking lot, there was a prolonged session of goodbye. A lot of the actors wouldn’t see each other for weeks depending on their schedules. Cars slipped one by one into the darkness. I noticed the only other car besides mine and Orlando’s was Sean Astin’s.

I knew where Orlando lived, by now, but he told me to follow him anyway, just in case. As we pulled out of the lot, I saw Elijah and Sean standing rather intimately close up against Sean’s car, Elijah’s arms around Sean’s neck. I raised an eyebrow, and on impulse, called Orlando’s cell-phone number on mine.

“Miss my voice that much?”

I smiled, steering the car behind his. “See Frodo and Sam over there?”

“What, you just noticed that?” A laugh. “Come on, Viggo.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know they’re a couple?”

“I don’t think they are. Not yet, at least.”

“Isn’t Astin married?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. That’s sweet.”

“You’re telling me this? How many more years have you spent in this industry than me?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, Elf.”

“Keep your eyes on the road, would you? If you plow into me, I’m bloody suing.”

I grinned. “I bet you would.”

In his driveway, I thought at length on the concept of friendship. I thought of how he and I had become very free and easy with each other over the weeks. I thought of Peter’s comment, “We’re going to give you and Legolas some more lines…you two are magnetic on screen.” 

I looked up to see Orlando in the doorway, getting his keys and opening the front door to his small flat. He motioned me in ahead of him, stripped off his jacket and tossed it and his keys on a chair near the door.

Before we even got to the living room, he started.

“Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath.”

“Perfect, except... The last part is more flowing together. Abweneth. Like that.”

He nodded and we flopped onto either end of the couches. He repeated the line.

I laid my head back. “May they find peace after death,” I translated.

“They’re going to subtitle the Elvish, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Le ab-dollen. You look terrible.”

I smiled, exhaling slowly. “Hannon le.”

He laughed at me. “That sounded far too sincere.” Heartbeat. “Ooh, what about our big riffy Elvish show down?”

“You mean the three, full sentences?”

“They’re very complicated sentences!”

I smirked at him and stood off the couch. “Let’s go through it, then. Can’t sit for these.”

We took up our positions, slightly away from each other. 

“Gimli says, ‘Most have seen too many winters.’”

Something came over his eyes and his posture; he stood taller, his ears higher, his eyes carrying a different shade of innocence. I was possessed with the idea of getting a picture of him like that; of trying to capture the very moment when Legolas appeared and Orlando went away.

“Or too few.” He looked at me. “Look at them.” He looked around at invisible extras. “They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes. Boe a hyn; neled herain dan caer menig?”

Aragorn took over effortlessly. I sighed, balked just a little, and approached him, head tilted. “Si beriathar hýn ammaeg nâ ned Edoras.”

His eyebrows came together, and I felt a trembling in him from just a couple paces. 

“Aragorn, nedin dagor hen ú-'erir otheri… Natha daged dhaer!”

I stepped up; closing the distance between us and feeling my voice raised in a way it normally didn’t in real life. “Then I shall die as one of them!”

He stared up at me, looking hurt, and I mentally heard someone shout “Cut!”

It took me a few seconds to stop feeling my heart pound. I forced myself to think of something not character related.

“You’re doing fine. You’re a little rough, but… We’re not filming Helm’s Deep until January.”

“The vowels are giving me hell,” he sighed, falling onto the couch.

“A good trick is just to pretend you’re speaking a language you already know and overlap as best you can,” I said, sitting three feet away from him on the couch.

“French helps. It’s got, like, a sort of similar…how’d you say…”

“Shortness. Clipped, in a way.”

“Mmm. That’s it.”

I glanced over at the end table and saw sitting there the photograph of the sunset I’d taken that day we went hiking. I tilted my head.

“You kept that?”

He looked around me and then smiled. “It came out fantastic, man.”

Silence again. I wish I had free reign to turn and stare at him. Why do men find it so impossible to look at each other for long periods of time? Or to sit close to one another, I noted, as I gauged the distance between us. Extra barriers in an already barrier-filled world. 

“It’s funny, being here. Doing what we’re doing. If you think about it from an outsider’s point of view, it’s…such an outrageous way of living.”

He looked at me strangely. “You make the most daft conversation I’ve ever heard.”

I laughed. “What? It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re still completely bonkers.” He rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes. “D’you mind?”

I shook my head. I was indifferent to it, really, and it seemed to relax him.

After a few more moments of silence, he exhaled a stream of smoke. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You keep to yourself a lot. More than the rest, anyway. And it’s like, well, I was…why do you…hang out with me so much? I mean, I’m probably the last person you would find interesting.”

I paused. I consciously felt the change from playful conversation to serious conversation. It’s amazing how entirely different the two are and how tangible the shift between them can be.

“Why do you think you’re the last person I would find interesting?”

“Why do you always answer a question with a question?”

I smirked and looked at him. “When I do that it usually means I don’t exactly know how to answer the question.”

He just playfully glared at me and then laid his head back. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” A pause. “It’s a combination of things. We were friends right away. You’re insane and have broken more bones than anyone I know, but…”

He laughed. “You mean the hang-gliding? Or the surfing? Or the bungy-jumping?”

“All of the above. You’re different from me like that. But we have a lot in common. Photography…acting…”

“Fan mail out our ears.”

“Already?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Damn.”

He smiled. “So you like me.”

“No, I hate you,” I replied, sounding pressed. “That’s why I bother you so much.”

“Glad we’ve got that sorted.”

“Me too.”

“Want to stay over? I promise my couch is clean. We can argue our mutual dislike of each other over porridge.”

“Sounds great, Elf.”

 

And this became a habit. Whenever we didn’t have early calls or places to be the next morning, we would stay at each other’s apartments. It was the most natural extension of our friendship. We liked being around each other. Our chemistry as actors was endlessly pleasing to Peter, who had originally worried that my isolation as Aragorn might hurt the bonding between the others and myself.

I didn’t realize that this domestic sort of arrangement would raise eyebrows amongst the rest of the cast and crew. One of my flaws is that I sometimes forget to consult the socially aware side of my brain until after I’ve done something “questionable.” I only processed the capacity for rumors and gossip weeks into our sharing of living space.

I had a half-decent laugh over it, though. It was nothing compared to the talk Elijah and Sean created; their open obsession over each other had finally crested. It wasn’t my place to judge either man’s actions. And they did seem happy. Seeing off Sean’s wife and daughter was bittersweet for all of us, who had come to adore his little girl. But that’s a movie set for you.

In fact, the main weekend when it all came to a head was the weekend after we got back from Rotorua. It was our second trip, and I along with Liv Tyler (who had stayed back an extra week just to go) had been brought along. I have to admit; it was a lot of fun, though most of the time I just painted or photographed rather than participated.

Orlando was brown from the sun and full of jittery excitement, even on the way back. We stormed Sean and Elijah’s building upon returning. Everyone knew they had used the weekend to their “advantage” the moment they showed up at the door. They were literally beaming. The way they snuggled on the couch said it all.

I was deep in conversation with Liv over our character’s relationship. 

“At first I just thought it was all contrived to get the female demographic, you know?” she was saying. “And then I read the Appendix, and it’s all in there, the story of Aragorn and Arwen. It’s beautiful, really.”

“It is,” I said, nodding. “In fact, the Appendix tells a lot more than the actual end of the book does…a lot of people skip it, out of habit, but it’s the real end of the story.”

Orlando walked back out of the kitchen with a corkscrew to open the wine Dom had just brought in. I smiled at him and he flopped down beside Liv and snuggled her.

“Hello, love. Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“In a few hours. Going to drive me to the airport?”

“Is there anywhere in this bloody country I haven’t driven you?”

She laughed and leaned back against him. “I hate the drivers they hire for us.”

“If you want me to, I will.”

I felt the strangest stirring in me, watching them together like that. Hmm.

“Well,” she said, a spark in her eye, “you boys probably have plans…”

“Me and Viggo?”

She nodded. Orlando chuckled. “Okay, so we’re just a pair of Tolkien bums who have breakfast together because we’d rather use one sink than two.”

Is that it? I felt strange all the sudden. Does it come down to just that?

I smiled. “I’ll just go over the rewrites. You go on, Orlando.”

He smiled back, nodding, and went over to grab a bottle of wine. Liv went on with me, not noticing anything out of the ordinary.

As the night wound down, and people left in pairs and triples, I hung back and watched Liv slip into Orlando’s car, all smiles and easy touches to her shoulder and cheek.

It had never even occurred to me that he and Liv might be lovers. The way she called at all hours asking for rides whenever she was onset had become the normal. She was a little dyslexic, after all, and worried about driving on a different side of the road. I had never thought it might have served a dual purpose.

Well, you are friends, my brain told me logically. He might have mentioned it. And the other side of my brain was not at all convinced that that was the reason for my caring suddenly about what Orlando did in his own time.

Dom and Billy tried to drag me off for a drink, but—a half dozen smiles and a brief poke of Narsil later—they accepted my declining.

And hours later at my apartment, while staring emptily at a few pages of rewrite, I realized that I was making excuses for myself. I buried my head in folded arms, grumbling in self-annoyance.

 

“Hey—Viggo.”

Poke.

“Viiiggoooo.”

Poke poke.

I stirred, opening my eyes, and felt my awkward position. I had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. How in the world did Orlando get in? Oh. Right. I’d given him a key.

“I’m up, I’m up,” I drawled huskily, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. I felt sticky and rumpled and far too warm. I needed to shower.

Orlando was a dark shape in the near-blackness of the kitchen, moving around slowly to get to the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of Poland Spring and came back to the table, spreading the papers and then beginning to stack them.

“I got these. You go sleep, man, you look awful.”

Suddenly I felt angry with him. He just waltzed in whenever he wanted, looking plainly ruffled—I bet he slept with her—and never regarding my privacy. And then the other half of the time, he treated me like some untouchable god-like figure, always asking my permission to smoke or go somewhere. I wish he would take more initiative where it counted and less where it didn’t! 

I stood up, sighing. You just want to know who he’s fucking, don’t you, my brain told me. Yes! Is that so strange? 

Yes, replied my brain. Men either brag about their sex lives to their friends or they don’t talk about them at all. It’s none of your business.

“You alright?”

He was staring at me oddly when I didn’t move. Half the bottle of Poland Spring was gone and the light coming in from the living room winked off the clear plastic. The air was very still, and there was moonlight coming from the window on the far-left wall. I could see clearly the outline of his shoulders and upper arms.

“No,” I replied, without thinking. Goddamn lack of censor.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“Are you and Liv lovers?”

Sickening, heart-thumping pause.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you. I’m just not understanding why in the hell you’d ask such a daft question.”

“Are you?”

“Bloody hell, Viggo, of course not. She’s a friend. Not my bird. Jesus.”

I looked at him; vaguely loving what anger did to the muscles in his neck. I sighed; the anger drained a little.

“I didn’t meant to…to accuse you…”

“Accuse me? You act as if you and I are married or something.”

I really shouldn’t have let silence happen after that, but I was at a loss for what to say.

“I’m sorry. I—I’m going to bed.”

I hadn’t had such a terribly constructed conversation in a long time. Feeling ten times the moron, I showered and then immediately fell into bed, pulling the sheets up around me. I never gave a thought to going back out and seeing the look on his face.

What was I thinking? What had my tone been like? I had forgotten entirely what Orlando and I were supposed to be. 

What were we supposed to be?

 

To my surprise, he wasn’t gone the next morning. I found him sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, a cup of coffee between his long, slender fingers.

I had a serious case of bed-head and must have looked dreadful just stumbling into the kitchen the way I did. I felt ten times worse than I looked. I so rarely argued or had any reason to argue, for that matter, with anyone, and last night weighed on me heavily. 

I sat down across from him, taking a deep breath. “Look, about last night. I was tired and kind of out of it, and angry. I took it out on you when I shouldn’t’ve.”

He pushed his coffee mug around, not looking up at me.

“Forgiven, man, alright?” he muttered. “Don’t know why I got all defensive and the like.”

“I was prying, though.”

“It’s okay, Viggo. Really.” He smiled this time, but it was strained.

I didn’t say anything to that.

“I’ve got a call in an hour,” he said, getting up from the table.

“Let me know where you’re going to be tonight?” I followed him with my eyes.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. 

But he looked put off. And I cursed myself inventively, silently until he walked out my front door.

 

November ran something like this:

Liv’s fleeing from the Nazgul scene, a flood disturbing our river scenes (Dom, the boys, and me fished and visited some vineyards instead), long hobbit scenes near Queenstown, some Dead Marshes shots, one of my orc battling scenes, more flooding on the Kawaru River (which substituted for the Queenstown one) put off our Anduin River scenes even further. There was also some night shots done for Moria scenes.

By December, Orlando and I had smoothed over our little fight, though neither of us ever called it that. We went back to our normal onset lives, though the “sleepovers” became fewer and farther in between.

 

“I would have followed you, my brother… My captain.”

I leaned over, ready to kiss Boromir’s forehead.

“My—LOVE!”

Sean Beam dived at me and playfully tackled us around, making loud kissing noises in the air near my neck. I dissolved laughing, my shoulders shaking, and Peter yelled cut.

“Guys, can we act like grown-ups for just one take?”

Half the crew was in stitches. I noticed Orlando was the only one not giggling madly. He stood in half-costume (the clothes and the wig but not the contacts or weaponry), eyeing us from behind the trees.

“I can’t help it! We might as well just bloody snog once before my death,” Sean called, laughing.

I had to admit that the scene was very serious—almost too serious for the moment. I couldn’t help but laugh. We’d get it in the end, anyway.

Peter called a lunch break and I hopped up, feeling gritty under the layers of make-up, wig, and clothes, but very alive at the same time. I wandered over to Orlando and smiled. If I wasn’t mistaken, he’d looked slightly uncomfortable during the scene.

“Hey, Elf. Shouldn’t you be fighting orcs somewhere?”

“Not today,” he replied, smiling back.

I put an arm around his back, feeling quite happy. “Let’s have lunch.”

 

The following two weeks were a blur of filming that left me exhausted and rarely alone. Amongst everyone else’s scenes was my battle with the Uruk-hai and all the Lothlorien shots. 

Halfway through December, we were told that there was going to be a four-week vacation period that would stretch until about mid January. Four entire weeks where we could do whatever we wanted—fly home, vacation in New Zealand, or continue living in Wellington.

I knew a good lot of people were going to go home. Sean Bean, John-Rhys Davies, and Liv Tyler were all leaving to visit family back home. Peter told me that Ian McKellan would be arriving in January; that was something to look forward to.

There was a lot going on as far as living went, as well; preparations for the hobbits to move to new housing, as a great deal of shooting would be going on farther from Wellington.

For my part, I knew there would be a lot of press and a lot of parties, and I hoped to rest. I intended to start on a regiment of painting and sleeping. And though I had every intention of doing so, I was thinking ahead almost obsessively. I knew the next few months would be dominated with filming the Helm’s Deep and Rivendell scenes.

Orlando and I would have a lot of scenes together. 

I sort of missed him. We weren’t spending that much time together. And when we did, well—it felt false. It just didn’t feel right. I knew that during our fight there had been many things that shouldn’t have been said—and a lot of other things that should have been said. It was an awful feeling and every day that slipped by made it worse. It was harder and harder to go back to normal.

He stuck to the hobbits more now than ever, and I didn’t want to bother him or try to take him away from them. Maybe it was for the best that he stayed with guys his own age. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t know…didn’t know…

Hm.

 

“Hey. It’s me.”

“You’ve reached Orlando Bloom’s Chat Line of Love. If you’re into bondage, press—”

“Dom, give me the bloody phone!”

I laughed and waited, and then heard Orlando’s voice on the line.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if you had plans for the vacation.”

“Not really. Maybe some surfing.”

“Ah. What about tonight?”

“Plans, you mean?”

“Mm.”

“No, I’m free.”

“Want to have dinner? I was going to cook just for the hell of it…”

Brief pause.

“Sure. What’re you making?”

I could feel his grin.

“It’s all pasta and vegetables, I promise.”

“Excellent.”

 

Dinner seemed to restore some of Orlando’s faith in me. Well. I say that jokingly; but he was in better spirits towards the end. And we weren’t drinking, so I couldn’t chalk it up to alcohol on the brain.

Afterwards, we camped out in front of my television, talking easier than we had in weeks. I felt better about the whole thing. But we weren’t quite where we used to be. On the floor in front of the couch, I shifted closer until we sat right next to each other, in touching distance.

“I can’t believe we actually have nothing to do for the next four weeks,” he commented.

I smiled. “It feels great. And we still have a whole year left…”

“I don’t want to think on it, really. I want to take each moment, you know?”

“That’s a good idea, I think,” I replied.

Another long silence and a changing of the TV channel.

“I’ve been kind of distant, haven’t I?” he said softly.

I smiled—all forgiveness once forgiveness was asked for. “A little.”

He turned and looked at me and I felt his arm that was resting along the couch cushions just behind my shoulder move. His hand touched my upper arm.

“I’m sorry, man, honestly. I know you were the one to start it, a bit, but I haven’t helped.”

“It’s been very busy for all of us. Don’t worry about it.”

He nodded and sighed, laying his head back, his eyes drifting shut. “I love the hobbits dearly, but you…you just relax me. I mean, like, the way you talk, the things you say…you’re so…I dunno… Being around you feels good. Wholesome. Real.” Pause. “I’m starting to sound like you.” He laughed.

I blinked and felt warmth in my cheeks. I remembered suddenly him standing on my doorstep, speckled with raindrops and looking like a cat.

“Is that your way of saying you missed me?”

He smiled, stretched a little, but kept his eyes shut. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Did you drink before coming here?”

He laughed. “No. Thank you very much. God.”

“Just checking. Have anything else you’d like to share?”

“Yes, actually. I finally realized why I like you so much.”

“Ooh,” I said. “Do tell.”

“You’re the one kind of person I’ve never been acquainted with my whole life. You’re a combination of all the things I respect and all the things that make you unique at the same time—I like that. It sounded much better in my head on the drive over.”

I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and felt his arm slip just faintly more around my shoulders. It was so subtle, the movement, that I wasn’t sure whether I had imagined or it had been accidental—or both.

But I didn’t care. I liked his low, rumbly British accent so close to my ear. I liked the warm weight of him next to me. I even liked the subtle scent of tobacco coming off his clothes. 

And it wormed its way into my subconscious, finally, that none of this liking was brotherly affection. It was in no way platonic. It was physical, emotional, and quite annoying.

Hm.

I should answer him, I thought, while my mind started to wander off in other directions.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said lamely. “And I guess I can say the same about you.”

“I’ll believe you’ve avoided guys of my ilk until now,” he said, chuckling.

I glared lightly at him. “That’s not what I meant, Orlando.”

“That’s another thing.”

“What is?”

“You refuse to call me by a nickname. It’s like…my full name is important to you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s a nice name. But doesn’t ‘Elf’ or ‘Elf boy’ count as a nickname?”

He grinned. His fingers pressed against the back of my arm. “Nah. That’s just a character thing.”

“I see.”

He smiled. The conversation lulled and we both laid our heads back, watching the light from the television dance on the ceiling.

“Did you know,” I said, “that research has shown that conversations predictably lag every seven minutes?”

“Wow. That is the most useless piece of information I’ll ever hear.”

I grinned. “I felt it was appropriate.”

“Now I’m going to time conversational lag out of habit for the rest of my life. Thanks.”

I left my eyes closed. That way, I could imagine us sitting this way forever, having pointless conversation and getting more and more comfortable being close. I hadn’t even thought of how his arm was supporting the back of my neck. My own arms felt stupid and all kinds of useless at my sides.

I felt like a teenager again, jittery and numb all at once. No small wonder that men my age enjoy dating younger people. It brings back youth with a shuddering, blatant clarity.

Does he feel the same way? That was mainly my next thought. Was it just normal for him to be comfortable with this sort of intimacy? 

“You going to sleep?”

His voice was much closer than before. I felt his face somewhere near my ear. I shivered. Oh, fuck.

“No,” I answered very quietly, my eyelids fluttering.

And that’s when my heart started to pound. The experience was trickling ever closer to crossing a line that there was no going back over. I knew that plainly, and it scared me, and I wondered what he was thinking, and which one of us would move first. 

The cliché of time slowing down actually applied; and that made me kind of nauseous. The tripping beats of my heart pounded out the seconds like some righteous, inborn clock.

I opened my eyes and was startled to see his wide, brown ones hovering right there in front of mine. He was far too close for relaxation; I hadn’t really been this close to anyone besides Liv during our kissing scenes. But that was acting. And he was so very real.

He was going to say something, but I felt desperate that he not. I brought up my right hand, wrapped my fingers around his arm, and that silenced him. Our eyes flickered back and forth and then down respectively to each other’s mouths. Ah, that universal prologue to kissing. It sent a rush of warmth up the back of my shoulders and neck.

We moved in slowly at the same moment, and that was good—timing counted when kissing was unsure. I closed my eyes just as our mouths touched, and felt the shiver all over my skin that the intimate contact brought with it. We pressed harder, mouths still closed, my nose brushing alongside his. My hand shifted from his arm to his shoulder and then his neck. 

Oh, the pleasure of feeling that soft, young skin under my rough palms. He felt so good; warm and alive and nervous and I adored him. He tasted like cigarettes and salt. This kiss went no further than that. I got the briefest sense of the heat and wetness between his lips before he pulled away.

He licked his mouth instinctively. My fingers were still halfway around the back of his neck. I felt the rough stubble there. I pressed our foreheads together and our eyes closed. 

The reality that I had just kissed Orlando Bloom went through me—a gentle ribbon of aftershock unfurling. What had we done that took us from friends to something more? What had happened to send him so far into my mind that the rules of normal living no longer applied? 

He opened his eyes finally and we shifted apart an inch or so. His mouth moved but nothing came out. I wanted to kiss him again. But I also felt rationality creeping back into my limbs; drops of mercury.

“How long…?” I prayed that he understood what I meant.

He closed his eyes when I started to rub my fingertips around the base of his skull.

“Feels like forever,” he breathed huskily. I felt a flush go through me.

His chocolate brown eyes were wide and dark when he opened them again. I could see all the violent and rushed desire of a boy in those eyes. I could see the confusion and the mixture of tenderness and passion that blazes so hotly in young men. 

I kind of loved him for it. Oh, yes—that was entirely possible.

But I couldn’t just throw myself at it the way he could. I had done this too many times.

“I think we should take some time,” I said.

He blinked at me, looking worried; immediately assuming the worst.

“No, not to forget,” I said quickly, smiling. “To think. It’s easy enough to jump each other in the dark like this. Give it a day or two and then tell me what you really want.”

He looked like he might be plotting ways to convince me otherwise. The words “I know what I want,” were surely on his lips. I knew he was powerfully excited and just a bit unwilling to stop. Hell, I was, too, but that didn’t mean I was going to drag the boy off to bed only for him to hate me in the morning.

It took an act of sheer will to disentangle myself from him. My body rebelled against this every step of the way—as I got him his jacket, as we said goodnight, as I walked him to his car, as I watched him drive down the street.

I crawled into bed, numb and tingling at the same time, arousal obvious in every length of taut, drawn muscle in my body. I kept seeing his eyes locked on mine. I kept feeling his pulse, fluttering wildly just below my thumb. I kept picturing taking his clothes off slowly, touching all his slender, firm parts until he begged for release.

But there was much more to this than sex, and it was that fact that somehow allowed us to part that night; to go off and do the thinking that we otherwise might have never done.

It was exactly what needed to happen.

 

The glaring, red numbers on my digital clock read 5:47. The phone was ringing, but it took a second for the fact to register; and another second for me to realize that it was the ringing that had woke me up.

I fumbled for the phone on the nightstand and came up with it at an odd angle, shoving it against my cheek. 

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”

His voice brought up a feeling in me even half asleep. I squinted at the clock again, sighed, and fell back against the pillows.

“It’s not even six, Elf. Of course you did,” I said, smiling widely.

There were a few beats of silence.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, finally. “About tonight.”

“You’re buzzed, aren’t you? Did you even go to sleep?”

“Er, just a bit. And no. I want to come back over.”

I smiled again. “I know. But you’re not going to. And to answer the question… I’m thinking… Impure thoughts.”

“Glad to hear we’re on the same page.” I heard him shift, a creaking, and a long sigh. “I could wank to your voice, Viggo… God. Remind me to call you when you’re asleep more often.”

I laughed, though the open sentiment caught me off guard. He was most definitely drunk.

“You’re too far into your cups to get there,” I said, smirking to myself and rolling onto my back.

“Pssch. But it’s true! Your voice is so scratchy and warm…goes down my side like fingertips.”

“Really?”

“Do you ever take credit for anything about yourself?”

I grinned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“The minute the sun comes up I’m driving over, Viggo.”

“I predict you’ll be asleep by then.”

On cue, he yawned.

“Stop jinxing me!”

“Go to sleep, Orlando.”

“Mmm. Say my name like that again.”

I grumbled pointedly into the phone.

“Alright, alright fine. I’ll call you when I wake up.”

“That’s fine,” I said, smiling.

 

By noon, Orlando hadn’t called. He was probably sleeping it off. That was fine, because I wanted to go down and visit WETA and then maybe the armory downstairs. I also had to have a conference with my agent, who was setting up several interviews with press agents that would take place over the course of the four-week vacation.

Life in Wellington was more relaxed, I noticed, not having to be onset—sort of like filming a movie with all the fun and none of the fuss. I took my time, wandering from room to room at WETA, visiting the artists and sculptors busy at work. It was a brand of art that I just didn’t have the capacity for, so I really appreciated what they were doing.

“How’s the sword, Viggo?”

I glanced over to see one of the guys who linked chain mail armor busy at work.

“It’s fine,” I called back, giving a wave and a smile, and moving down the rows of weapons.

An hour or so later, I called my agent’s private number and he laid out some dates and times for three interviews: two over the phone and one in person, in Wellington. Making notes on that while I sat behind the wheel of my car, I couldn’t help but think about Orlando.

When I hung up with my agent, I sat drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. I wanted to drive over to his place, but suddenly felt odd. What would it be like, seeing him in the light of day? Sure, a quick kiss in the dark and a half-drunken phone conversation were simple things. Would seeing him be different? Would filming be different?

And what about after? We couldn’t possibly be on the same level. I was already envisioning a relationship extending past New Zealand; would a young kid of twenty-two be thinking the same way? Probably not. And there was no reason why he should have to. His career was just starting. 

I sighed. Why was I throwing cold water on this before it had even started?

I felt a twisty ache in my chest, going back to the idea of driving over to his place right from WETA.

Making up my mind to go—my excuse was to check on him—I steered out of the parking lot and towards our block.

When I got to his place, I noticed another car in the driveway. It was Sean Astin’s, if memory served. Curious, I grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat, shrugged it on, and made my way to the front door.

Before I could even knock, Elijah opened the door.

“Hey Aragorn. Orli was just about to call you…!”

He tugged me inside and towards the kitchen, where Sean was pushing a mug of coffee under Orlando’s nose.

“At least you can be hung over and awake instead of hung over and asleep,” he snipped good-naturedly.

Elijah walked over, smiling at Sean and sliding both of his arms around the older man from behind.

“I thought you only made coffee special for me,” he pouted.

Sean grinned and leaned back, kissing Elijah quickly.

I had never seen them quite so open with each other, so it was a little strange. My eyes drifted to Orlando. He didn’t look too hung over. I assumed he had told the hobbits something about our encounter.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” I asked, eyeing the happy couple.

Elijah grinned and flopped into a chair at the table. Sean sat next to him, and I could see their hands laced under the table. They seemed so easy and free with each other. Inwardly I hoped that, if things worked out between Orlando and me, we would end up like that. 

He seemed to notice me finally, once I’d spoken. And if my eyes weren’t playing tricks, I could’ve sworn he blushed. I smiled a private smile at him, leaning in close to his side.

“Hey.”

He smiled back, his eyes flickering all over my face and shoulders. “Hey.”

“Interesting phone call last night,” I said, grinning.

He groaned. “Why didn’t you just hang up on me? I’m sure I recall making a complete arse out of myself…”

I laughed gently, trying very hard not to embarrass him. Okay. That’s a lie; I really didn’t mind embarrassing him. 

I leaned in closer, letting my mouth almost touch his ear. “Nothing too dreadful. Something about, ah, ‘wanking,’ as it were, to my voice…” 

He blinked and then pulled back, giving me a “no fucking way” type of look. My expression dismissed it. He groaned and thunked his forehead on the table.

“Drunk-dialing should be a crime,” he mumbled into the wooden tabletop.

I kept myself to a grin, bringing up a hand to lightly pet the back of his head. I looked up at Sean and Elijah.

“Are we holding the first annual ‘couples who have gotten together on the set of Lord of the Rings’ convention?”

Sean grinned, lifting his head from the crook of Elijah’s neck. “We couldn’t. Dom and Billy aren’t here.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Them, too? Damn.” I laughed. What was it with this cast?

Elijah cracked up laughing on Sean’s shoulder. “It’s New Zealand, I’m telling you.”

I continued to chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s probably in the water.”

“Or Peter’s been spiking the food at the cafeteria with aphrodisiacs just to promote onscreen chemistry,” Orlando chipped in, smirking.

“He wouldn’t,” Sean gaped.

“Oh, he would,” Elijah pressed.

We all had a good laugh over what would otherwise have been a seriously interesting point. Was it merely being on location for so long with such intimate character relationships that brought us together? Was the fact that it was “a boy’s cast,” as Sean Astin had put it, that drove us to be attracted to each other?

Whatever the reasons, I had found a very interesting and wonderful person in Orlando—and I had no plans of giving that up.

 

 

Hours later Sean and Elijah went back to their building, leaving us alone. The whole of Orlando’s apartment was drowsy with orange-yellow lamplight. The main hall from the kitchen to the living room was lit just that way, and the bedroom loomed in a pool of light of its own. I felt very comfortable in these rooms.

He stepped out for a cigarette and then came back. We talked quietly and then decided to walk circles around the block just for some air before drifting inside once more. I filed in behind him, lightly rubbing my hands up his arms and eventually wrapping my forearms around his shoulders.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t had a lover of either gender in a while; and that it was strange that physical intimacy came back as naturally as it had. It was as if he’d always been mine, and the fact had merely been confirmed in the last few days. Oh, but love is like that.

Love, is it, Viggo? Careful now.

Could it be anything else? 

Was there any other explanation for savoring the sound of his breathing, the cheap cologne he wore, or his twitchy habits? Was there any other explanation for wanting to taste him and keep him? 

“Penny for your thoughts?” he queried softly.

We were sitting on his couch side by side; he had his arms lightly around me, and I let my head touch his. The only honest way to answer was the direct way: to tell him I was thinking that I might be in love with him. But I wasn’t stupid enough to actually say that.

I looked at him, studying the angles of his face carefully; getting all wrapped up in a dusty mix of lust and love. I lightly wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck and drew him in close.

Letting my eyes dip nearly shut, I brushed my mouth back and forth over his while whispering, “I think…that we should get comfortable.”

I could almost feel the nervousness in him. His fingers were unsteady as they tangled in my hair and then fell around my shoulders. It struck me that I had never asked him if he’d been with another guy; I’d just assumed he had.

“You’ve…have you…?” I sort of nodded my chin, not exactly knowing how to put it to him.

He tensed a little and shifted to get closer to me, understanding immediately. “Boys,” he said. “Not anyone like you. And I wouldn’t call it lovemaking so much as…screwing around.”

I understood that better than he could know at the moment. Smiling, I let my fingers wrap around his shoulders, squeezing and kneading there. He was knotted up a thousand ways to Sunday. God, I hope I wasn’t scaring him.

Slowly I untangled us and stood off the couch, taking his right hand with my left, and pulling him close. We kissed, and I could feel the desperation in him for more despite the fact that he was intimidated. I closed my eyes, letting myself fall into the feeling of the tight muscles down the lengths of his arms. Archery and horseback riding had done nothing but good things to his body. 

We stayed that way, stumbling through the hall with a kind of calculated misstep, occasionally leaning against a wall to find our way. Just outside the bedroom, he steered my back to the wall and pressed into me, his mouth slanting and opening across mine.

I squeezed my hands down his back, letting my fingertips skim the top of his ass and pull him in. He made some small noise. His tongue continued to do soft, flickery things to the inside of my upper lip. He sucked at my bottom lip, then covered my mouth again, teasing me with half-sized portions of his tongue. He was a bloody tease as far as kissing went. I couldn’t help but grin.

Pausing to breathe, he noticed my grin, and pressed his hands to the wallpaper on either side of my head, kissing a hot trail of dampness down my jaw-line. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, pursing my lips shut when his lips wrapped around my earlobe and he bit down softly.

A squirming line of sensation went right to my crotch. I moved a little, using my hands to bring our pelvises together. I sighed, shuddering massively as he went on stirring me, sucking and nipping my neck and throat. All the tiny hairs on my body were standing on end.

Getting a little uncomfortable standing there, I tugged at his shirt and directed us into the bedroom. It was a fairly decent mess of a room, but I was beyond caring about the order of any room in the flat.

At the side of the bed, we stood lightly embracing, exchanging soft and nipping kisses. I felt almost immediately his fingers on my sides, and then all at once they went for the button on my pants. Blinking, I lifted my head.

“Hey, hey…what’s the rush?”

He started to say something, then stopped, and then tried again. “I figured you’d want me to…”

Realization dawning, I chuckled, shook my head, and relocated his hands around my waist again. “What I want you to do,” I said softly, “is enjoy yourself.”

And then it hit me that I had to make the night as much about him as possible. It was obvious he hadn’t had a decent male encounter yet, or he wouldn’t have treated it like a race to zippers.

“What do you feel like doing this very second?” I asked, my voice just as low.

He looked a little uncomfortable, but willing, and smiled, his fingers walking up the front of my shirt. “I…I’d like to undress you…”

Drifting in close, I kissed him feather-light, passing the tip of my tongue teasingly just between along the seam of his mouth. “Then go ahead.”

I felt a shiver go through him. His fingertips stumbled slightly over each button, but I never moved to help. I was burning and throbbing beneath the linen of my clothes. Once the shirt was open, he flattened his hands against my bare shoulders, pushed the cloth off, and then caressed the soft underside of his palms down my chest, up my sides and around my back, and then upwards to cup my shoulder blades. His mouth fell to the apex of my neck and shoulder, kissing and sinking his teeth around patches of flesh.

My middle was trembling wildly, but otherwise I must have seemed composed to him. I did nothing to lead him. Pulling away from me slightly, he pressed me backwards until my calves touched the bed. I sank down, sitting, and then when he loomed over me and lightly pressed himself to the length of my body, I laid back on the bed. He sunk down past my neck immediately, kissing the line of my collarbone.

“God, Viggo, you’re…you can’t even begin to see this under all that costume…”

I laughed low in my chest, eyes closed. The laugh died in my throat when his mouth closed on one of my nipples. I inhaled and exhaled carefully. My hand was at the back of his neck, keeping him company as he explored. He pinched the tight nub between his fingertips, licked it softly with his tongue, and then kissed it for a long moment. It left me squirming, this thorough exploration.

Drifting back up my body, I felt his knees press into the mattress between my thighs. Cupping his face in my hands, I kissed him firmly, letting some of my desire to have him flood my brain. All I remember is how wet his mouth was and how it was never enough, no matter how many times we teased the full length of each other’s tongues.

His hands skimmed my belly, teasing the waistline of my pants and finally going to the button and zipper in a much more relaxed way then before. I wanted this to be about him, but he wasn’t making that easy—if his hand started working its way into my trousers, I wasn’t sure I could stop him.

He sat back on his knees, stripping the cloth from my hot, sticky skin. And then he stayed that way, his hands on my thighs, and his eyes literally devouring me. I had the crazy thought that maybe I should’ve mentioned all my tattoos before we got undressed. I wasn’t self-conscious about my arousal or anything besides that, which was just a little amusing. Only, he wasn’t looking at the tattoos. 

I took advantage of the lull to shift back on the bed and sit up. I smiled at him while I got to my knees, bringing him tightly into the circle of my arms and claiming his mouth again.

“Close your eyes,” I whispered softly, my mouth taking an experimental path; along the high ridges of his cheekbones, gently crossing his eyelids and the bridge of his nose, teasing the edges of his jaw and then making love in soft, damp dips to the hollow of his throat. He kept swallowing hard and I could feel his pulse racing.

He was almost falling into a stupor as I kept this up, covering every inch of his neck. My fingers crept under the hemline of his t-shirt, splaying broadly over his stomach.

“You have no idea,” he was whisper-mumbling under his breath, “how many times I’ve thought about you doing this to me. And it was—was…oh…that—it was so hard to keep my mouth shut. Got to the point where just looking at you made me so hard that I—Christ, Viggo—thought I’d break my wrist wankin’…”

I grinned as he rambled on, each rumbled word a pebble on the pond surface of my concentration. I slipped the shirt up off his head. He was beautiful shirtless: not as skinny as he looked. In fact, his arms and shoulders topped him off nicely. He was fair, his nipples light brown-pink smudges on his skin. The sun tattoo on his stomach made me smile. 

I fell back to kissing him again, this time running my fingertips and nails up and down his back and sides in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The effect worked, leaving him tingling and all the tiny hairs on his arms standing up. Goosebumps broke out over his limbs as I suckled his bottom lip and then his tongue.

I sunk my fingers down lower very slowly over the curve of his ass, letting my hands cup and mold to either curve. His breath hitched and then hitched again when I squeezed and pulled him inwards. Abandoning that, I went for the zipper of his jeans, and in a few seconds the offending denim lay halfway across the room.

Sitting back and leaning against the headboard and its pillows, I motioned for him to sit with his back to my front, spooning into my lap. He found this odd for some reason, but obliged. I wrapped my arms around his waist, letting his legs stretch alongside mine, letting his arms rest on top of mine.

He snuggled until he was comfortable pressed to my front and then let his head fall back on my shoulder. Taking him down a little by rubbing his shoulders and stroking his sides, I felt the throbbing heat under his skin that matched my own. I was torn between the desire to be as deep inside his body as possible and going slower.

I could see his face torn with red and clenched tension as I thrust into him over and over, gripping his shoulders, groaning into his throat. The vision tormented me. I wished for patience. And then I saw his soft rapture, the way he was completely relaxed in my arms, and the tenderness popped up to temper the lust.

My fingers lifted the waistline of his boxers just slightly. I teased the warm skin there, feeling the bumps where the material had make imprints on his skin. And then I stopped, going back to lightly rolling and pressing his nipples between my fingertips. My mouth covered the expanse of his shoulders so many times that I lost count. I could feel the humming vibratory arousal in him grow steadily louder.

After eliciting several whimpers and thrashes with my slow, careful touches, I finally let my fingertips slip back down to the boxers. I spread my fingers over the painfully hard bulge, still cloth-covered, and lightly pressed my grip around it. I rubbed the heel of my palm down the straining length, then finally wrapped my hand around its distinct shape, spreading its length.

“Oh, God. God, please, please don’t stop…”

His voice changed dramatically when he was like this; it got very low and very serious. Years later, this bedroom voice would be a famous in-joke between the two of us.

“What do you want me to do, Orlando?”

He shuddered and exhaled sharply. My fingers dipped under the waistband and slid over his hot skin, pressing the crease of his thigh and brushing the hot weight of his testicles.

“Touch me, hard, like you just—ahhhh…”

Before he could finish, I wrapped my fist around him. I licked the tip of my tongue slowly along the curve of his ear.

“Like that?”

“God, yes.”

Selecting a random grip and upward angle, I began to work my fist around him, slow swivels of my wrist dragging his erection to further, flushed hardness. I leaned back a little, giving us more room. His ass was digging into my rock-hard erection, but I tried to ignore that.

He turned his face against my throat, a fine trembling all in his limbs and over his skin as I slowly pumped him with my hand. 

“You feel so good,” I sighed against his ear, using the words to distract him from my left hand creeping between his legs as well. He jerked and then went still. I wrapped my fist around the first two inches of him and began squeezing soft side-to-side swivels around the sensitive head.

“Ahh—ahh—oh…oh my…oh Go….”

My left hand lifted the heavy sac of flesh between his legs, rolling the weight of it in my palm. Timing that with my slow milking of him, I let my middle finger separate from the rest…and tentatively I circled the tip just below where his testicles ended, feeling for the tiny spot between that and his anus.

I knew I found it when he cried out and jumped an inch off the bed.

“Viggo!”

Oh, now—I could get used to hearing that.

“What did you…”

“Again?”

“Fuck yes.”

Giving broad, full-length strokes, I placed the fingertip against his skin again, instead of just pressing into the spot, softly circling with a much lighter pressure around it. He began to shake, his hips lifting off the mattress to force harder contact.

“If you keep…I don’t think I can…oh, God, that feels so fucking good—oh God!” 

Using the leverage to rub that sensitive spot, his balls, and giving a little extra friction while my other hand pumped him rapidly, I set about making him come. I wanted to feel that shuddering jerk rip through him—and we were so close, I could feel everything in his body. I thought I might just accidentally come along with him.

As he got closer, he grew silent, and that was the tip-off.

“Orlando…”

“Mmm…?” Strained, damp forehead, breathing unsteady.

“Come for me,” I drawled against his ear.

He inhaled harshly. “Not…going to be…hard to…do…”

I left my fingertip on that spot, as he was bucking so much into it that I didn’t need to move it on my own. 

“Viggo!”

“More?”

“I’m almost…”

“Mmm…”

And he was loud when he came, which I loved; I loved the fierce writhing of his lithe body, the way he kept sobbing over and over into my shoulder, as he burst in jerking spurts all over our thighs. He was panting and heaving shuddery moans for moments after the actual crest.

All afterwards was heavy breathing and damp air. I clutched him, feeling the post-orgasm contentment wash over him. His hands searched for mine, clutching and stroking in the dark—all slippery and sticky.

I kissed his hair, his neck, and his ears; endlessly, it didn’t matter if we stayed here for years doing this. He was still shivering. I wrapped my arms tightly around his chest, completely tuning out my own arousal.

I felt around for the t-shirt I had stripped off him. Exchanging a quick glance with him to make sure it was okay, I then used the t-shirt to clean him off carefully. I wiped my hands briefly and tossed the t-shirt aside again.

I laid back further into the pillows, almost entirely reclining this time, and kept him against me. He was strangely quiet and limp and I would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

He started to shift around a little. He rolled over, laying himself softly atop me, and clasping my sides with his arms as much as he could. He closed his eyes when I started to pet the sides of his face.

“I could fall asleep like this,” he breathed, his eyelids dipping.

I smiled. “Then go ahead.”

He opened his eyes. “You mad? You must be tense beyond belief…”

“Do I have to make that a kingly order?”

He murmured drowsily against my chest, “You’re still not king, Aragorn.”

I passed my knuckles softly down the side of his neck, saying nothing. And sure enough, in about three minutes, he was asleep.

 

Suppressed by the warm softness of the morning, we wrapped our bodies together. I pressed kisses to his neck, exploring the length of his back with my fingertips.

“Two times,” I muttered against his shoulder, kissing there.

“Mm?”

I kissed his throat, rolling onto my side so that we might further squish together, and draped my left calf over his.

“You called my name twice, last night.”

He chuckled and then grinned. “You’re keeping track?”

“Yep,” I answered, stroking my fingers through the slick of hair down the back of his head, and pressing my lips just underneath his ear. He was busily nibbling my neck.

He pulled back and then kissed me, sighing against my mouth and rolling onto his back so that I tumbled carefully on top of him. I broke the kiss, staring down at him, thinking about how beautiful he was.

A shrill, annoying noise broke up what was shaping up to be a nice, morning make out session. I grumbled, recognized the ring tone of my cell-phone, and leaned down to scoop my pants from the floor. I wrestled the tiny phone from a clinging linen pocket, giving him an apologetic look, and balancing my weight on one arm.

“Viggo.”

It was my agent. I mouthed that to Orlando, who started kneading my shoulders slowly, and quite impishly letting our naked crotches brush together. I bit back a groan into the phone.

“Uh, the interview? Oh. Right. The one for—yeah. An hour ago? You’re kidding. But you said it was at eleven.” Pause. “It’s almost noon.” I put my mouth away from the phone and mumbled a curse while searching the bedroom for a clock.

“Viggo,” Orlando whispered, his fingertips teasing over the flat plane of my left nipple. I trembled, only hearing bits of words from the man on the other line.

“Ah, hold on a second,” I said into the phone. Cupping my fingers over it, I glared at him. “I’m going to kill you when I hang up.”

He grinned, rubbing his hand down my stomach and sinking splayed fingers broadly over my half-awakened erection. “Little Aragorn does not like your tone, sir.”

I would have laughed if it were any other situation. Closing my eyes, I put the phone back to my ear.

“I’m really sorry, Elliot. I…I just overslept. It’s been a—” Orlando’s fingers closed around me, squeezing along the sides of my length. “—busy week. Can we reschedule? Any—” I felt his tongue lap at the hollow of my collarbone and his fist closed fully, stroking me. “—time in the next few days is fine. Maybe later in the evening…” I covered the phone again. “Orlando Bloom.”

“That’s me, officer,” he quipped cheekily in whisper. His hand crept around my hip, rubbing us together while he continued to work my erection. I wasn’t going to be able to have coherent conversation soon. Shuddering, I all but hung up on my agent, telling him to call back later in the afternoon.

I think I threw the phone onto the floor; it’s all fuzzy now when I try to remember.

“So, did that officially start my own count of name-calling?” he asked casually, pinning us together and adding a gyration of his hips in addition to the excruciating efficiency of his rhythmic grip.

“Uhm,” I groaned, leaning over him and pressing my face into his throat. After a minute, I felt the arousal start to creep into him as well. He looped his calves lightly around the back of my knees, tension pinching all along his forehead and neck.

Archery had also done marvels for his grip, I thought hazily, as I felt him work every inch of his fingers in one way or the other around me. And then his shifted his wrist, adjusted the way our bellies pressed together, and wrapped his hand around both throbbing lengths of flesh together, his hips grinding steadily into mine.

I let out a low exhale, rocking my pelvis between his legs and into his hand in opposition to the motions he set out. Heat broke out over my skin, moisture on my brow almost immediately. I felt my movement exciting him more than anything; he kept glancing down our bodies and then closing his eyes and exhaling out his nose in a trembling sort of way.

His wrist never seemed to tire, and the steady, hard stroke was so good. I loved feeling his legs wrapped around me, pulling me in again and again. It wasn’t what I really wanted, but it was just fine for a spur of the moment morning encounter—the real thing would have to be given a full night, at least.

My thoughts constricted and relaxed along with my body as we made the bed creak and tap the wall with our ever-more-desperate movements. I clutched him, shivering and almost falling apart half a dozen times in a row as we kissed wet, hot kisses; nothing between devouring each other’s mouths.

And then we slowed down a little, tightly gripping each other. I pressed hard into him, my face brushing his, both our eyes closed. 

“Orlando…” Sharp, unconscious, loving.

“Two.” Unsteady, between the noises of skin on skin and heartbeats.

And then the final crescendo, feeling the tension clamp between my legs, and the bed shake on its posts as his wrist swiveled and jerked around me. 

“Oh, God!”

He watched my face as I came, and seemed swept away by the expression there; I felt his shuddering, sticky climax between our stomachs moments later. We stayed locked together, moving slowly until it waned, and then finally collapsing. 

I wondered if life could stay this way—endless rounds of sleeping and sex until one is completely drained of energy and purpose.

He grinned up at me, his tongue teasing the scar just on my upper lip. “Did I say good morning, by the way?”

 

One month later on January 13th, we celebrated Orlando’s twenty-third birthday. It was a regular Middle Earth party, smack in the middle of one of the Helm’s Deep sets. It was as private a party as possible—and it helped that the set was in the middle of a rock quarry.

My gift to him was a collage of all the photos I’d ever taken of him, arranged chronologically from October until mere days before. 

“They may not see the changes, but I do. Even though it’s not physical, really. It’s all here, in these images, and I’m not exactly sure how to extract it yet. But I’m hoping you’ll give me all the time in the world to try…”

He got a little quiet and thoughtful when I said this. I think he might have cried if no one else was around. He slid his arms around me and we stayed that way, lightly swaying to the music pumping through the speakers, his mouth on my throat.

The party also served to introduce Ian McKellan to the group. He had arrived in New Zealand just four or five days before. He was one of the centers of attention, certainly. 

Alcohol of eighty different brands was passed around. Gifts were piled high. I found myself just watching Orlando get all the attention he deserved. 

I had spent the past month with him, learning his every tiny habit. I sat through his frustration over never feeling up to par with the rest of us. I watched him stare at the script and the rewrites for hours; I watched him pour over the dailies, looking for some flaw in his performance that only he could see.

I don’t think any behavior was questioned that night—not the way Sean and Elijah couldn’t be physically parted, or the way Dom and Billy insisted on using up a whole couch for random snogs. And certainly no one looked our way strangely when we danced to every song he wanted us to.

I realized also that I was watching him grow up before my eyes; all his exposure to older actors had done wonders for his composure and his professional life. Of course, nothing could ever tame his private life—he insane desire to do anything and everything that put him in the way of physical danger. I loved that about him just as I loved everything else. 

Cameras were going off everywhere, blinding me with flashes. I tried not to drink too much, because I wanted to drive Orlando home later and give him a more private birthday gift. 

And when the night was finally slowing, he came over to me, kissed me in front of the entire congregation, and gave a laugh of pure contentment.

 

Sometime in May, in the middle of the night, he rolled over and nudged me awake. I tried to make out his glowing face in the pale wash of moonlight that fell in stripes down the length of our bed.

His eyes were full of tears. He wasn’t crying, per se, just tearing up and letting those tears fall.

“I love you,” he whispered, in such a passionate tone that my entire body responded. “I love you so much it hurts me. Please tell me it won’t end when we leave New Zealand…”

Startled further awake by the pain in his voice, I pulled him close to me.

“What makes you think that was the plan?”

“I don’t know. I just realized all at once that we both have other movies to film already, other activities we don’t share…that we don’t live in the same country…”

“That’s our lives. But we have the means to be at each other’s locations overnight, if we wanted. I will never abandon you for the sake of distance…”

But for some reason, I felt like he just needed to get out his fear about the possibility. So I encouraged him to go on crying, and I held him as he trembled for hours until he finally gave in and fell back asleep.

 

 

By June, we had finished shooting the Paths of the Dead scenes. In July, with my prodding, Orlando went abroad—one week in Australia and one week in Thailand, with Dom, Billy, and Elijah. It would be good for us to miss each other a little; good for him to spend time with people closer to his own age.

I had Henry visit the set. I hadn’t realized how much I missed my son until I saw him. The length of my hug was objectionably long to someone of that age, apparently, and he was all squirms and grins until I let him go.

He bolstered my strength and my pride in what I was doing. I decided not to tell him about Orlando. While I had no doubt my boy had the maturity to deal with my relationship with Orlando, I wasn’t prepared; and didn’t feel it was fair to do it without Orlando there.

Throughout the summer, many scenes were done: the cracks of Mount Doom, the Pass at Cahadras, and the swamps of Mordor. By the beginning of August, we finally had the Anduin river scenes filmed. 

 

September marked the beginning of filming involving Edoras. Halfway through October we celebrated our one-year of shooting anniversary. There was a huge party at Barrie Osborne’s house—you’ve got to love that firepole.

“One year,” Orlando breathed against my shoulder, while we stood sipping champagne and watching Peter go around thanking everyone.

I nodded, smoothed a hand over his hair. “One year.” I held his face in my hands. “I love you, Orlando Bloom…”

 

By November, the scenes with Eoywn and the Witch King were underway. Minas Tirith was born in a quarry called Dry Quarry Creek.

Interviews were in more demand; agents called more frequently. I was already receiving working scripts of the movies that wanted me next, as was Orlando. It was too busy to relax; the closer the end came, the faster and more realistic things got.

The real world was slowly encroaching upon the borders of New Zealand. Those were quiet times, when exhaustion from filming left us dead on our feet by the nighttime. When we both spoke more of what we were going to do when we left New Zealand than what we had done for the past year.

I was sort of scared of leaving but powerfully excited. I knew I would have Orlando with me in some way no matter where we both were. After all, who better than two actors to deal with a long-distance relationship?

 

By mid December, the last scene between all four hobbits was filmed; the Moria door scene. Champagne was brought out again, and I watched Sean and Elijah stay in their hobbit costume long after the scene was finished.

Two days later we filmed Aragorn’s coronation scene. I have to admit—it was much more emotional than I thought, and sort of realistic, as it was set at the very end of the shooting, in the same way that it came at the end of the books.

I noticed several crewmembers dabbing their eyes before the shot was done. And why not? We all looked splendid in our elaborate costumes and regal attitude. And the King of Gondor sat on his throne finally, and the White Tree would bloom in the courtyard for years to come—and I cried, too.

Two days after that, we got our Fellowship tattoos. It was a bittersweet way of saying one of many good-byes to Middle Earth.

The next day, Sean and Elijah filmed their last scene together—Faramir taking them to Osgiliath. I remember how they refused to get out of costume until a thousand pictures had been taken. There were tears and embraces so desperate that no one on the set doubted they were madly in love—with the project as much as each other.

 

December twenty-second was the last day of real shooting. At the wrap party that night, I sat and indulged in a half-hour of emotional conversation with Peter Jackson.

In all the months of filming, I had seen him get choked up, and I had received praise for my portrayal of Aragorn. But he let down every professional guard he had in that half-hour. He wasn’t the hugging type, really, but he clasped my hand—almost forcing himself to do it—and wouldn’t let me go.

“There’s no words I could use, to make you know how much you’ve meant to me and to this project. It sounds so clinical, saying that—and I…everything you’ve done is so intimate and personal that I wish I could think of another way to say it.”

I felt my throat clenching slightly. Oh, emotions ran high that night, and I was already ready to cry, watching the good-byes and tears of nearly everyone around me. Peter stopped, swallowed thickly, and inhaled.

“Thank you,” he said, tears shimmering in his eyes. “Thank you.” He squeezed my hand harder. “Thank you so very, very much. I just…” He stopped, cleared his nose with a sniffle, and looked away. “I just told Sean and Elijah that I had wanted all my life to meet Frodo and Samwise and that I can now say that I have.”

“Peter…” I felt tears sting behind my eyelids.

“No, let me, I… When you walked onto the set, you brought Aragorn with you. I don’t know where you found him, or how, between Los Angeles and New Zealand, but you did. Seeing you with Narsil…seeing you fight the orcs…lead the Fellowship…hearing the Elvish come out of your lips as if it was natural to you… It was all that I could have ever asked for and ten times that.”

Tears slipped gently from the corners of his eyes and from mine a moment later.

“No matter what you do or where you go, you will always be Aragorn, to all of us. Don’t forget this shoot. Don’t leave these people behind.”

He stared at me and I stared back, and then I crushed him to me so hard I think I hurt him. It didn’t matter—he was a genius, and we all loved him, and down to the very end I think he was overwhelmed by it all.

We somehow managed to untangle and part, though I wanted to go on talking and telling him how grateful I was that he even gave me the opportunity to be here. That if it weren’t for him, I might have never met Orlando. I might have never met any of the insane and wonderful people that I now considered family.

And I cried a lot that night, as did everyone; and when it was over, Orlando watched me fall asleep in the passenger seat of his car, and put his jacket over me, and cried himself, the whole way home.

 

We couldn’t fly home together. We weren’t even going home, really—there were a lot of side trips that had to happen. And even if home was the destination, his was London and mine was Los Angeles. 

So the airport meant goodbye for at least a few weeks—maybe a few months. It was hard, standing there in a private room (security office, I think) just so we could say goodbye properly. I had decided that I wasn’t going to cry or get overly emotional, but that plan flew out the window as soon as I saw the broken, afraid look in his eyes.

I didn’t let him go for several minutes.

“I’ve given you every phone number under the sun where I might be reached,” he said, snuffling, though he hadn’t yet shed a tear. “You’ve got my private line, and I expect at least one phone call a day, d’you understand?”

I stifled him with kisses, messy and desperate. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

“And letters. Lots of letters. And photographs, whatever ones you take, I don’t care. And you promised me a few poems—and you also promised a song or two. You really should take time for that, you know, man, it’s brilliant—”

I smiled. “I know, I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Why do those words not do justice to the feeling?” he whispered, burying his body against mine.

“That’s what everything else is for,” I said, running my fingers through his partially grown out hair. I gazed at him, my thumbs on his lip, my eyes glazed over, feeling all the wealth of our year and a half together as keenly as anything I’d ever felt. 

“That’s what forever is for…”


End file.
